Plebian
by LaylanatorXVII
Summary: When Lucy and Desmond are out on a supply run, Rebecca gives in to Shaun's pleas and lets him take a spin in the Animus. Unfortunately, the results aren't quite what he was hoping for. Sometimes it sucks not to be born into the Brotherhood. Sort of cracky. Please leave a review, I cherish even short ones. Maybe hints of S/R, up to interpretation. Edited and improved.


_A/N: Short-ish one-shot inspired by a conversation with my brother. Please don't judge us, it's cracky._

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 _ **WARNINGS:**_ _Some swearing. Oh, and I have probably somehow managed to butcher a British accent in less than a thousand words, so sorry._

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 _ **DISCLAIMER:**_ _If I owned Assassin's Creed, then Haytham would have been the main character of Assassin's Creed III instead of Connor. Since we were stuck playing an incredibly bland character throughout the entire game instead of an incredibly sexy, British one, then you can infer that I do not own Assassin's Creed. All rights to Ubisoft. The bastards._

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 _Constructive criticism is accepted, and will be taken into serious consideration._

 _Flames will be used to heat my peppermint tea._

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 _Also, ugh, this was kinda crappy the first time I wrote it, I thought, so I edited it to make it better, but by the time I did that it already had about 32 views, so now I'm afraid it's had it's fifteen minutes of fame back when it was crappy and no one will ever see the edited version...ugh._

* * *

Rebecca stared at the monitor, anxiously tapping her fingers on the desk. She was really at a loss for words. I mean, what can you say? Shaun was still lying prone on the Animus 2.0, staring at the ceiling with an undecipherable expression. He seemed to be in shock.

When Rebecca had agreed to let him take a spin in the Animus ( _"Just a quick one, though, while Lucy and Desmond are out on supply run, or the boss lady will have our asses")_ neither of them had thought it would turn out like this.

God. This was terrible. What should she say?

Rebecca was just about to break the silence when Shaun spoke up.

"Hot dog vendors," he said flatly.

Rebecca turned to look at Shaun, who hadn't moved, except to throw his forearm across his eyes in what she could only assume was mortification. Under any other circumstances, she would be relishing this moment, but right now all she could muster was a profound sense of sympathy (and, okay, maybe a little bit of amusement.)

Turning back to her computer screen, she began deleting the memory files from this session. No need to keep incriminating evidence around, and besides, she was sure Shaun wanted to pretend that it didn't exist. "Technically, it was sausage. At least until the 1800s at Coney Island."

"Still!" Shaun sat up, elbows planted on his knees and his face in his hands. "God, it's humiliating."

Rebecca sighed, turning in his direction. "Not everyone can have ancestors as cool as Desmond, Shaun."

He glared at her from between his fingers. "Don't you dare tell him about this. I'll never hear the end of it."

Rebecca fought a smile and continued, "You and I weren't born into the Brotherhood. It's to be expected that our ancestors would be a little more, well…boring."

"At least _yours_ were mercenaries!" he grumbled, flopping back onto the Animus with a dramatic huff, slinging his arm back across his eyes.

Rebecca smirked, plucking an empty paper cup from her desktop and tossing it at him. "Lighten up, drama queen. It could be worse.

He huffed. "At every major moment in human history, my ancestors have done nothing significant but the distribution of ground animal parts-and rather unsavory bits, too, I tell you-sculpted into the shape of a tube. The Bonfire of the Vanities, the fall of Constantinople, the Holocaust, the Alamo...You-you-you saw the Alamo!" He jabbed his finger at her in a frenzied manner, propping himself up on his elbow.

She disguised her chuckle as a cough. His dark look said he was not fooled. "Yes, I saw. I can't believe they actually let him on the battlefield. You'd think they would have predicted that he would have gone down in a blaze of cannonballs and destroyed meat products." She clapped her hand over her heart and sniffled. "But his memories live on...in you."

"This isn't funny, Rebecca. If this gets out, I'll be a laughingstock."

She scoffed. "You're already a laughingstock. An espresso bar, Shaun, really? I can't believe you actually put in an formal request."

"Shut it, Rebecca."

"Hey, maybe we should put in a request for a-"

"If the words "hot dog stand" come out of your mouth, Rebecca Crane, I shall regrettably be forced to kill you."

"Okay, okay."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"...hot dog stand."

"REBECCA-"

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 _A/N: Okay, so basically, my brother and I were playing the game and all of a sudden Shaun starts going, "Let me in the Animus , PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE I want to investigate my Nordic roots PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE" and one or the other of us goes, "What if his ancestors were just super lame, like they were Renaissance hot dog vendors or something?" And, thus, this was born._

 _Also, I did sort of half-assed research, and: Hot dogs originated in the 1800s at Coney Island when some dude started selling sausages in buns. Hot dogs, were, sadly, not around in Ezio's day. But use your imaginations, and suspend reality with me, and imagine with me that all of Shaun's ancient ancestors were into something so mundane as food vending._

 _This fic is 99% bullshit, and I am proud of that fact._

 _Please leave a review and tell me how downright goofy and ridiculous you thought this whole endeavor was. Believe me, I already know._


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